On childhood in general, mine in particular.

I put my pen to the paper

Letters and words

Sentences and stanzas

Spiraling from the tip.

The characters flowing from my consciousness

To the page in front of me.

My thoughts are words,

Arranging themselves into

"Art" as my soul drips

With the ink.

I've always thought in words.

I've never been spatially aware.

Even with crayons, I wrote.

My name. 

My mom's name.

My pictures are

Inadequate.

My grapes don't look

As good as my sister's.

Maybe it's because she's older.

Maybe my grapes will look as good

As hers

When I am 8, too.

My mom told me to color

In my book of princesses.

She said to stay in the lines.

I can't stay in the lines.

The crayon is too big.

My hand is too small.

"Grass isn't purple"

My sister says.

She's right.

I wonder if my sister

Could spell "trophy" when she was in second grade?

Probably not. 

She's better at pictures and dancing.

I'm better at letters.

Mom gave me a book to read.

It's Magic Tree House.

My sister is reading

How to draw horses.

She's good at it.

I just took my sixth grade spelling test.

I spelled

"Antidisestablishmentarianism"

Right.

I spelled "ideal"

Wrong.

My sister is in dance.

She says the teacher hates her.

My teacher just handed back

Our last book reports of ninth grade.

"C-"

Mine read.

My sister said

"I told you honors was pointless."

She's taking motion picture.

I got my ACT score back.

5 points higher than my sister.

She says it doesn't matter.

She's in a very good college.

She's engaged to a very tall boy.

She's probably right.

She's never taken dance or

Art again.

I'm still writing,

Words spelled out on the paper.

Putting myself on the page.

Still, sometimes I wonder

What I could have been

If my grass could have been 

purple.

--Alis